Walls
by Tichfield
Summary: Years after her visit to the Labyrinth, Sarah has to deal with a different sort of maze.  Chapters 1 to 4 of an eventual 5.
1. Chapter 1

Note: This was originally posted under another author name. For several reasons, I had to delete all stories posted under that pseudonym. Chapter 3 is new. This is very much a work in progress, and comments/suggestions are appreciated.

Walls

by Tichfield

Written for Pika la Cynique's 'Here's the day you hoped would never come' challenge.  
(It'll be apparent in Chapter 3)

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and situations associated with the movie Labyrinth are the property of their copyright holders (The Jim Henson Company), and not mine.

* * *

"Shall two knights never tilt for me  
And let their blood be spilt for me?  
Oh, where are a maiden's simple joys?"  
-Guinevere

This is a tale of blood, and changes. Of the coming of the walls and binding of the seal which keeps us here.

It starts not many years ago - a night with rain, a world which you have never seen.

They have their masquerades, as we do ours. The dance of lies, where costumes build false figures over true ones and the pain of that-which-is may be relaxed afloat in that-which-never-was.

You may well frown, for I have warned you from our bubbles. There, the boundaries of fantasy are not so clear. An audience may watch a masque protected by a second blanket lie - that nothing matters but the story, predetermined in a script. That painted lines betoken a true frown or smile, and outward signals always speak an inner truth.

Betimes, the actors wear these lies about them off the stage, and know it not...

* * *

"Toby, I told you not to call me here." Sarah dabbed at a reflected spot. The dressing-room mirror must be dirty. Did she really look that old? "I don't care if you're waiting. Look, it's just rain. Call a cab. ... what money? I don't know, just... steal some." A quick rummage in the nearest drawer and... there! a scrap of cloth. Left over from 'Pygmalion', to be sure, but it passed the sniff test. "Yes, I DID go there. It's what you do, isn't it? You and your friends? ... How should I know who your friends are?" She wiped a week's accumulated talc from her reflection, and gave a short approving nod at the result. No more spots. Age fell with the dust, and there she was - the actress known to hundreds of adoring fans. 

Well, twenty. For now. But it would be hundreds after tonight.

A knock at the door.

"Delivery, miss. And curtain in ten."

"Thank you, I'll - no, of course I'm not thanking YOU, Toby, why would I ever - look. Just GO, okay? I don't care how, just GO." She snapped the cell-phone shut and turned to unlock the door, careful to avoid adding wrinkles to her costume.

It was Jim. Or maybe Jake. Was it a rule that stagehands had to look alike? He held an envelope, bouquet of dahlias and the veil she needed for her final scene.

"Thank you, Jjjj-"

"John, m'am."

"John. But you know the flowers are SUPPOSED to go with the others - up front?"

"So sorry, m'am, but these were to be given special in your hand, like." John grinned from ear to ear. "From a mister, m'am."

Sarah sighed and found a place for the flowers between Leticia's Act Two costume and the case holding her street clothes. The letter, she left on her dresser.

"That will be all, Jim."

"John."

"John, then."

"Uh... break a leg miss? I'm a big fan." She glared at him. He didn't take the hint. "Listen, could you sign my-"

"That will be all." Sarah searched her repertoire and settled for a look she had once used as Lady Macbeth, while engaged in stain removal.

"Really? Oh, right. You're busy. I'll go now, then. I'm... well, should you ever need me..."

There were thirty-two ways in which she could break his nose with an inappropriately slammed door. Sarah considered it a credit to her virtue that she avoided all of them.

"For any reason at all," he continued.

Make that 'barely avoided'. The door's closing 'whoosh' ruffled her hair, but she considered an extra twenty seconds with the hair brush a fair price to pay.

Sarah put her ear against the door.

"She broke my toe! Bloody starlet broke my toe!" The yelps continued down the hall.

So very satisfying.

Fans were troublesome at the best of times. Mysteries, on the other hand...

Sarah held the envelope to the light. Heavy cream paper, not watermarked. And not sealed, to her great disappointment. Not knowing was half the fun, but to guess when one could just pop open the flap seemed like... cheating, somehow.

There was paper inside, folded or sufficiently thick that no writing was plain through the lamp-glow. Unscented, but the courier must have stopped at the curry house next door.

No stamp, no seal or emblem, so no official recognition... though there was always the chance of a lord courting her in secret, hiding his desire in plain but well-chosen materials for the sake of his reputation...

She allowed herself a few moments of reverie before exhaling and opening the message.

Two tickets to Diana's that evening, after the show. A short, scribbled note on the back of a business card - 'I love you almost as much as you love their dinner show and peach souffle.'

Trevor.

It was sweet, and thoughtful, just like everything he ever did. Now that she thought about it (with a brow wrinkled enough to threaten the makeup artist's handiwork) she'd made a comment about the dahlias in Harrod's display window, and how pretty they looked.

Once, quickly.

Two weeks ago.

He'd remembered.

Knights waited months for Friday tickets to Diana's. If he had them for tonight, of all nights, then he must have known that she would be here. He must have believed she would land the part, when she herself was thinking of nothing more but whether to send her resumes next to the curry house or the fried chicken stall.

Sarah was fortunate to have him. Everyone told her so. It had been love at first sight, on his part, and a fairytale courtship. A sunlit tale of meadows, without storms or poisoned apples.

"M'am?" Muffled, urgent voices from behind the door. "Two minutes to curtain."

* * *

The stage was hot as sunlight, lights blinding her to everything past her fellow actors and the first few rows. 

Trevor was there, in an aisle seat. His eyes and rapt expression were not to be mistaken; he followed every movement and she swore his face grew dim when she was not in scene. Though it's true the small monitors backstage were poor substitutes for eyes.

"I do love nothing in the world so much as you," an actor said, and nudged her foot with his too gently for the audience to see. "is not that strange?"

Blast. She always forgot this line. Strange, strange... is not that strange... her colleague did his best to make the pause seemed planned, but even his famous gesticulations would only buy a few seconds.

She looked away from the disappointment in his eyes, and turned to Trevor's smiling, trusting face. There was no strength to be gained from it, no impetus, no extra energy or goad to remembrance. Strange... she didn't...

Oh. Right.

"As strange as the thing I know not. It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as you, but believe me not. And yet I lie not; I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing"  
She scanned the house as soon as she dared. Of those patrons she could see, most were satisfied. A few were sleeping. A few children whispered to their parents.

Only one of them had noticed. One member of the audience, with an empty seat beside him and a mocking smile.

"I am sorry for my cousin," she finished.

He continued to taunt her for the rest of the play. Feigning sleep, wincing when she missed a line, laughing into his fist at her pronunciation. Every wordless heckle made her heart beat faster, melted concentration and brought a tightness to her skin with anger.

Who was he? A critic? Member of the peerage? Both, perhaps?

He judged her, that was certain, and he felt entitled to.

Trevor noticed nothing of this interchange. Acceptance and trust were written in every line of his face. Or they would have been, had his baby-soft face any lines at all. No doubt he thought her gaze determined from prior blocking.

"Foul words is but foul wind," she declaimed, "and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome. Therefore," and she did not know if she spoke to the actor or some other man, "you shall depart unkissed."

There was applause, at the play's end. Several ovations.

The critic left before the first.

* * *

"...so you see, I do need you after all." 

John was suspicious. Intrigued, and freshly bandaged, but suspicious. Despite this, Sarah knew he would cave in, just as she knew that Didi (her puppy) would eventually eat a bitter pill when coated with pate.

"You'll autograph my cast. You promise."

"Yes."

"And all I have to do is... keep that man out?"

"The blond one, yes. In the navy blue suit. The one who gave you the flowers."

"Why? I thought you-"

Sarah raised her palm in interruption, and smiled to see John flinch at the motion.

"No reason at all. It's just... a whim."

"A whim. Like slamming the door on my toe, whim?"

"Y-yes, a little like that." Sarah brought a stage blush to her cheeks. "Why harbour a grudge, Jim?"

"John."

"Whatever. Why harbour a grudge? You WILL enjoy the cast." She added just the slightest hint of suggestion to the final word.

"I... guess it'll be.. nice." He swallowed and licked his lips. "With the autograph and all, I mean."

"Good boy, John. Oh," she added quickly, as if on the spur of the moment. "There's this... other gentleman. In a black suit, dark-haired and clean shaven with sky-blue eyes. His cufflinks are silver and his shirt has an odd triangular collar. He might have gone to the lounge after the performance. If you should see HIM..."

"Yes, m'am?"

"Send him in."

"Yes, m'am. Shall I give him a message?"

"Tell him.. the wind is changing."

* * *

What's that? You are confused, you say? 

I spoke of love and here she bars him entry, granting access to a stranger.

She is an actress, thus a creature of two parts. An inner self that speaks the truth, and outer shells that always lie.

Why, yes. Exactly like the Jacks that guard the well of hands. You're quite precocious.

If you've spoken with them, then you know they speak the _same_, for all they're different. Two views, a positive and negative. The object does not change, just its description.

So it was.

You do not understand. I see it. Well, you are too young.

Perhaps this way - the stories, Theseus, the Minotaur and yarn. Rapunzel in her tower.

The loved one's always guarded. By a challenge... or a monster.

The mermaid turned to sea-foam for her prince. Would she have loved him half so much if she had known him, had him, with no risk or dream, denial or danger?

Good. You nod. I may continue.

Now to the frigid man. John found him in the lounge beside a glass of whiskey and a bill he did not wish to pay.

It did not take too much to bring him to the rooms backstage, to talk with Sarah.

* * *

And what a talk it was. Confusion, irritation on both sides as each one tried to use the other. 

She suggested something, he demurred. And yet a calculated glint of greed forbade him to say 'no'.

He didn't want to go. He didn't want HER.

But then, that was the point.

He was a social climber, a reference seeker, the sort of professional hob-nobber who goes grocery shopping at the parties of the gentry.

To be seen at Diana's with the actress of the moment would keep him in stale canapes and pilfered wine for half a year. She made him see that, and so he agreed.

But he looked caged when she took his hand, and like to run when first he saw more tempting morsels.

A foul wind.

* * *

Of the meal, I will not speak. It is part of another story, the tale of a man who slew a giant, and the bird that came to earth. 

Why? The tales each bear a different point. To mix them, though they happened at one time and in one place, dilutes their purpose. Strains their being.

There is a reason that few singers mention Snow White's nemesis once wore glass slippers. Or that they were fashioned by the very hands that made a casket, also out of crystal. Though this is true, the knowing of it spoils the narrative.

Such a secret is this meal.

No, not even if you urge me, little one. Not even if you bribe me with your kisses, or your smirk, which looks so very much like that your father wears.

Hrm?

Oh. No.

No, his kisses are... quite different. They bear the taste of peaches, and of dreams.

A taste which, curiously, was also present at the ending of the meal.

* * *

End Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

Walls, Chapter 2  
by Tichfield

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and situations associated with the movie Labyrinth are the property of their copyright holders (The Jim Henson Company), and not mine.

* * *

"I can be cruel  
I don't know why"  
-Tori Amos

They left Diana's arm in arm, the scent of peach souffle still lingering about them. Sarah felt his suit against her skin and smiled. He smelled of what they'd eaten, faintly, but with overtones of good cologne. Other couples looked at them from the sidewalk, stopping conversation to admire his tailored clothing and her fine lines, silhouetted elegance against the neon lighting of the dining district.

They might well be jealous. Whatever might happen behind the clouds that cloaked the sky, she was the star that shone brightest this evening. Only one thing could improve it...

"Sarah," he stopped her from crossing the street, a tap on the shoulder and a turn to face her. "You know what I need." He was taller than she was, and had to look down to meet her eyes.

She held his gaze.

"Let's go back to the car." Sarah intended it more as a command than a suggestion.

"Here. Now."

"But sir," her best Cheshire grin went here, "I've only just met you. How I can I know you won't run off and leave me alone once I've given you what you want?"

"You don't." Before she could react, he had taken her left hand and and brought it to his lips. "You are not the only actor here," he whispered into her fingers. "I can play the perfect gentleman. When I must."

Soft. Very soft.

"Lip balm?"

"Marshmallow and rose," he admitted. "Made in small batches." Her companion managed to say this without letting go of her palm. Sarah wasn't sure she wanted him to. Not yet.

A shiver ran along her arm, from wrist to elbow. He didn't seem to notice.

"I'm getting wet."

Now he blinked, startled, and let go.

"Well, what am _I_ supposed to do about it?"

"I think you can figure it out."

He didn't. Not for another fifteen awkward seconds of looking at each other.

Then, the rain began to fall in earnest.

"I didn't bring an umbrella," he admitted.

Sarah wiped her forearm dry and grabbed him by the suit sleeve.

"Then let's go stand under the awning until the rain stops."

"Then you'll pay me?"

"Maybe," she considered while leading him back to the restaurant's windows. "Most of my cash is at home - but if you're willing to settle for a bit less, all I need to know is whether-"

Trevor was ahead of them, below the tarp.

He did not look happy. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, and his mouth, so pretty when it smiled, was a thin line. His eyes saw past Sarah, above her, fixed on the man at her side.

Sarah smiled her cruellest smile. She'd used it in a play about Napoleon's sister.

"Fancy meeting you here," she said to him. "Have you met Benjamin?"

* * *

She wished him to explode, to show his anger. It's not so odd as you might think - that crescent amulet your father wears about his neck, how do you know he values it? 

From constant fingering? No, that's not it. Those spheres he touches are expendable.

You know because you broke it once, and his fury was a fire within a night-time forest: dangerous and destructive, yes, but also brilliant and revealing in its beauty.

Do you remember how you made it up to him? With crescent pastries and quick lessons in spot-welding. Ah, you smile. You remember it still. You see? And it has been years.

The sweetest moments grow from flashing anger.

* * *

Trevor swallowed, looking lost. His hair was wild; he'd been in rain. "I'm, um..." He ran his left hand quickly through his curls while offering his right. "Trevor Nelson. I'm Sarah's, um..." he blinked too many times while staring at his rival. "Delighted." 

He fairly melted, rigid posture flowing into something spineless and kind.

The cold man raised his eyebrows and looked at the hand, but took no other action.

"So, you, um," he noticed 'Ben' was disinclined to talk, and misinterpeting, turned back to Sarah. "How long have you two, um..."

Sarah could not decide which most disturbed her - that he thought such a deception possible, or that he yielded to it, and was prepared to share her. Or worse.

Trevor was a very giving person. Always thinking of what she might desire, granting her wishes like some blond mortal genie, overzealous in his nurture and protection.

And if she'd truly wished another man?

"Anything I wanted, you told me."

"But, it's usually, I... this sort of thing just doesn't..."

If he had limits, she wanted to see them.

Sarah drew Benjamin closer to her and considered running a finger along his cheek.

She decided against it when Ben started to push away. He was uncomfortable. Greedy for his promised payment, but uncomfortable.

Sarah sighed, instead.

"Don't you see? I. Want. Him. Will you deny me?" Each word a tolling bell.

Benjamin managed to pry himself loose. He looked at his watch and spoke, "I'm sorry, Sarah, but you didn't tell me you had blind fans. Why is he still here?"

"This IS awfully awkward, Trevor, dear. Don't you have somewhere to be?"

"I... I was going to be... we had tickets!"

"Yes, WE did. They're all gone, now, and Diana's is closing for the night."

"Are you two going back... together?"

"Yes," said Sarah, to Benjamin's simultaneous "No."

"Which reminds me," she added, "you don't mind if I keep the car another night, do you?"

"But... how will I... you... you really DO like him, don't you? I mean, if you really like him, well, then, I'm no one to stop you and... if you... but... I said I'd be with you tonight!"

"And now I'm with someone else. No one can blame you for walking away, Trevor. Unless... you'd like to join us?" That was a little too far. She had to tighten her grip to prevent her rented paramour from bolting.

"NO!" Yes, she thought in silence. Rage and fume and take me from him. "I'll... just... call me. When you're... if you... for anything. You know I'm there, and we should... we should talk. Do you... I only brought cards with me, and without a car... I need to get home, Sarah. Work. Tomorrow."

She dug in her purse and tossed him a pound coin. They're small and metal and round, like the yellow boss on a goblin shield.

"Take the underground." It landed in a puddle before him. "Why, Benjamin. I do believe he's crying."

"I do believe you're right," answered the heckler. "Can we go? It's getting late."

"Give him the doggie bag first, Benjamin." Ben was reluctant to let go of his prize and the day of meals it represented. "Trevor is partial to the peach souffle."

"On second thought..." He patted the inside of his jacket to make sure his treasure was safe. "I need to sleep early tonight." He bent down and picked up the pound coin. "You can leave the, the..." he was not about to mention the bribe by name, "the thing we spoke about at the box office. They know me." He began to tip his hat before noticing he wasn't wearing one. "Good evening. Sarah. Trevor." Benjamin made the most dignified exit possible at full walking speed in the dark and rain.

Sarah bit her lower lip in what she hoped was a disarming fashion.

It didn't work.

Trevor stared at her, brows knit and mouth half-open, starting occasionally as if to speak but never finding the words.

There was a circle of spectators about them, now. The rain was eased, and she _was_ the star of the evening.

The star who had dined at Diana's with one man, and now faced the ire of a second.

They were doing their best to remain inconscpicuous, but she knew who they where, and behind what doors this rendezvous would be whispered of in coming days. One short man in a toupee, with white glasses far too large for his face, pulled out a pad of paper and began to take notes.

Gossip columnist.

For a moment, Sarah wondered what he'd make of the mention of a doggy bag from Diana's.

She didn't dare to move, and Trevor didn't speak.

Feathers broke the silence.

A rustle of wings, the sound of flapping. And hope.

Sarah turned to follow the sounds. It wasn't more than a second or two,a motion so insignificant and natural that no one should have noticed it - but Trevor did.

He sputtered.

"Is THAT what this is about?"

"Trevor, please. There are people here - come with me, we'll talk."

"Come with you." His voice was ripe with disbelief.

"Please, Trevor. This is too public..."

"Oh, don't mind me." The gossip columnist kept scribbling, never lifting an eye from his notepad.

"They're pigeons, Sarah."

"Look, just follow me. To the car."

"Pigeons. The kind that give you messes for presents, not crystal balls."

"Don't do this, Trevor."

"Oh, you're right. You're so very, very right." He stepped toward her, breathing more heavily than usual. "I can't do this." He ground his teeth between sentences - it was a habit he knew that she hated. "I can't compete with him, Sarah."

"What do you mean? You're never competing with h- with anyone." She spoke under her breath, but that wouldn't help. Sound carried well in the evening air, after rain.

"I give up. I can't compete with your imaginary friend. It doesn't matter where we are. The beach, your home, the country. Even that time in the Alps. Do you know you've made me scared of wings at night, Sarah? I dream of them."

"Trevor..."

"I dream of them taking you away. But you ARE going away, aren't you? Taking yourself away from me." His voice was louder. Too loud. "Sealing yourself off, building walls. I don't know you anymore."

"This isn't the best place for a fight..." She said this quietly, and hoped that he would read her other, smaller gestures. He didn't.

"I've given you everything, Sarah. Everything. I've tried to break through, but... I'm just not there in your world, am I? I'm just a part of playtime. And you know what?" He drew his breath. All argument was difficult for Trevor. "I can't do it any more. You're a child, Sarah. A child."

"I love you." She spoke it as a binding charm, a summoning. She was not sure she meant it.

"Maybe you do. I don't know. But right now, those stuffed animals, those dolls... you love them, more than me. I shouldn't have to hide from owls, Sarah."

The gossip columnist tapped Trevor on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, sir. Derek Small, Nashunull Tattler here. When you say she loves her 'stuffed animals' and 'dolls', would them be those euphemism-type words for more peculiar things? Curious readers want to know."

"They're not euphemisms." He turned back to Sarah, his expression now perfectly calm. It would be easier if he were angry. So very much easier. "Grow up, Sarah. Did you hear me?" She heard him. "Grow up. When you do, come back and see me. Or don't. You can keep the ring, either way."

He walked away from her then, taking the crowd and the reporter with him.

She did not see much else.

Somehow she moved. From one street to another, past the bakery and textile store, up the ramp and to the back door of the theatre.

Her key was in the lock, though she could not bring herself to turn it.

"Grow up," said the frogs from the nearby pond.

"Grow up," said the crickets, singing from the grass.

"Grow up," cawed the crows, seeds of fortune in their wings.

The theatre's pigeons were the only ones to voice dissent.

"Who?" They asked, with rustling feathers. "Who?"

Sarah leaned against the door, her forehead on its frosted glass window.

She knew the answer to their question.

She was tired, so very tired.

The night was done, and day a sliver of light newly born.

She was tired in body, tired in mind, tired in spirit - she longed to sleep and wake to find this life a dream.

"Grow up," said Sarah - and then more. "Goblin King, Goblin King, wherever you may be... I wish that you would take this child away." She drew her breath. "Right. Now."

* * *

End Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

Walls, Chapter 3

by Tichfield

Written for Pika la Cynique's 'Here's the day you hoped would never come' challenge.

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and situations associated with the movie Labyrinth are the property of their copyright holders (The Jim Henson Company), and not mine.

* * *

"Tear me into shreds and recreate me  
Show me that it's not too late to learn"  
-Lynn Ahrens

An open door.

That's the beginning to so many things, isn't it? The dream singers tell us it is a symbol. Of movement, of entry to another world or another way of being.

They tell me, anyhow. They warn you away from marmalade and sharpened blades.

Most stories make the portal lead into another land - a strange one. The dreamers never told me how the symbol changes when the door's your own, and yet you stand outside it.

Sarah did so, for a time. She'd fled into the theatre, and dashed through dusty hallways to the dressing room she never quite admitted that she slept in, during high-rent times.

All halls were empty. Janitors had long since gone and hung their mops on hooks provided. The government that pays them is not kind to overtime. Computers, cold and crackling, were security where once night watchmen had patrolled.

The only lights were small ones, minimal and meant only to stop a thief or late-night acting meet from stumbling and breaking bones. Plastic candles and their novelty bulbs, designed to look like flames. A lime-green elephant that plugged into the wall. A galaxy of luminescent stickers on one wall, from when the set designer's daughter made her visit.

Sarah's dressing room was dark.

Not pitch-dark. That's expensive, and needs heavy curtains. A full moon shone through cotton sheets, turning all it touched a silvered blue.

From the entryway, her desk seemed double-touched by moonbeams. Where there should only be a pot of base, a tube of lipstick, other odds for making faces, sat two objects not remembered.

This was odd, for she was neat. Compulsively. She ordered all those things she owned into the comfortable shapes she'd learned to love. Triangles. Squares. She'd given up on circles.

Trevor encouraged her. She spoke of chaos, how she feared it, how she felt it as a rot - and he approved.

She never told him that she lied; she never told him that she'd said the words on his behalf and meant them as appeasement.

Cradled by a silver light, the strangers on her dressing table nearly glowed.

Nearly.

She couldn't quite make them out. Late gifts, left for her once she had gone? A fallen prop?

One was round and smooth, the other long and less defined.

Almost familiar.

A trick of the night, she decided. And a chair was in the way, with Monday's coat draped over it.

She stepped inside the room and felt for the light switch.

There was a breeze - a slight one. The window had been left unlatched. It was one of those old ones, built late in the previous century as a protest against the modernist decay of architecture. Which meant it was shoddy, impractical, and its wooden frame warped with the seasons.

She wished, briefly, she'd remembered the weakness. It is an easier entrance, through a small garden and up a loose brick which can be used as a step.

Seconds of scrambling until her fingers met the plastic peg she sought.

She flipped it, to no effect.

A fuse, no doubt. A burnt-out fuse. That's all.

Sarah took a deep breath and moved closer to the dressing table, sliding the chair out of her way.

There was no hiding it. The mirror showed the picture clearly, if without the coloured benefit of day.

She saw.

An actress wearing rumpled clothing, make-up streaked by tears. Behind her, a moonlit window with cheap curtains moving slightly in a chill night breeze. Beneath her, a clear ball and a feather.

I am aware you know these symbols well. At this time she did not, nor were they blazoned on her carriage.

That she recognized them, yes, as you would recognize the matter of your dreams made life.

That she acknowledged them or knew them? This is not certain.

Curiosity, exhaustion, hope and resignation worked together and she bent to look at them more closely.

Sarah thought she saw a shadow from the corner of her eye. A moving man in darkness.

She spun and faced the window - finding nothing.

If she was calmed by this, it was because Sarah had fallen in the habit of observing many shadows in the previous months. Bits of movement, apprehensions that no others saw or were aware of.

There'd been pills. Appointments.

She'd stopped paying for both.

Of two things she was certain - that the feather before her, unlike the shadow, was real. And that she wished to hold it.

So she did.

She picked it up, running the quill between her left thumb and forefinger, feeling its brush against her skin and wondering as it returned to its original form after her less than tender attentions.

It looked blue in moonlight, save for a core of purest silver.

She'd seen the pattern hidden in the crystal ball, briefly, before looking away. Sarah picked it up now with her other hand, and looked into it. The shapes were indistinct. She squinted. They were more like a cat's eye in a marble than a feather, and she could not decide whether they moved, or not.

She had decided to look more closely, to observe, when a sudden strong draft blew the window fully open and made her shield her eyes.

There was more light now, from outside. She fancied she could see the roses in the garden just outside, and within, at the level of the window-sill, a glass shelf. It was high enough so that she'd not need to bend her head all that much, when she looked through the ball to the scene within.

Oh, yes. She'd quite convinced herself there'd be a scene. You smile, but imagine how you'd feel, had you been to a bubble masque but once, through a forced invitation.

So did she feel at this moment.

She balanced it carefully. There was nothing else on the shelf. Nothing to lean it upon, to use for support. All those who changed inside that room knew of the second route inside, and would never hazard their valuables by leaving them on the arrival platform. Sarah could have reached back to the desk for a pot or a small box, but that felt wrong to her. Like mixing pepper with sugar. Two worlds that should not meet.

When at last she convinced the sphere to sit still, she moved back a step and looked through it at the moon.

The two matched perfectly in size.

The more she looked, the more she saw. Shadows, indistinct. Blue swirls and hinted beaks that made her hold the feather all the closer.

Shapes twirled before her, and shifted. Too faint to be called real, and subtle movements which may well have been imaginary.

Sarah frowned. Her frown is a powerful motivator, do you not agree? You do. Wise child.

She frowned, as I said, and moved closer. A half-step. A lean. An attempted deciphering.

A crash. The shelf was weak with many landings, and the ball grew heavy with the weight of expectation. It holds a world, however small. Trapped moonbeams only lent it further weight.

The sound of shattering. She flinched as she was bathed in shards, and helds her arms crossed to her face, protecting that she held most dear.

Far greater things than shelves have fallen to these balls. One, sun-infused, once bought a frog a princedom.

Her right hand'd been caught palm-outward. It was dotted with her blood, where needled glass had pierced and bounced and fallen back like bumble-bees.

In her left she held the feather.

The plume looked darker, now. As if the moonlight had grown scared of running through the quill, and had retreated to a safer distance.

A worried look. A fear, all hers, that all contained within the crystal egg had hatched - that she was caught as once before in nightmares mirroring her life mundane.

Relief, therefore, as she beheld the crystal ball intact. It'd fallen through each layer of sheeted glass, crushing them and resting on the floor, within a fairy-ring of empty space within which other glass dared not intrude.

She bent down and picked it up with her free fingers, then held it to her eyes, to see whether the sudden fall had somehow woken or distracted all the shadows which she'd seen within it.

The sphere began to warm the instant that it touched her palm.

In seconds, body-warm.

She dropped it, startled, and stepped back.

What's this? You move toward the door, and it's not even tea-time. You say that my tale tires you, and you wish details. Blood and tears and sacrifice and laughter. Is that all, then? Have patience, little one. Sarah's state was not the kind that lends itself to rich description, or to varied memory. Not yet.

Besides, you would not want a full account of how the city air smelled mostly of petroleum and garbage uncollected. Striking workers, if you'll know. Of the cheapness of the furniture within her little room. Of posters stolen from another theatre. Of tinseled clothing that looks real on stage and nowhere else. You have a home where paving stones will tell you if you've lost your way. There's nothing there, in her old world, to bring you wonder or delight.

Except, perhaps, the wind which grew and took out from her hand the feather that she'd held so closely for security.

A pin-feather, it was, and she'd not been entirely wrong when thinking it was shunned by moonlight.

The ball rolled of its own accord. The Song of Stones can hold no claim to crystal. There are other powers that can make a mineral... reconsider its location.

The feather followed the ball, though not of its own will. It was wind, your father's servant, that bore the plume behind the sphere and finally, when it had come to rest beside the wall, let go in order to allow the twain to touch.

Like the crystal, Sarah'd also reconsidered her position. Though she could not help but watch, her back was 'gainst the other wall. The one that had a door in it. She slinked along it, fumbling for a handle, wondering if she had closed the door or it had closed of its own will, without her notice.

Of course they do - not only have they wills, but a cruel sense of humour. Or have you never noticed that they only stick when you most need to hurry?

As she watched, the ball began to spin. Slowly, at first, but as it sped it made a keening, wailing sound. A thrumming. A vibration that filled all it touched with urgency... and then it multiplied.

The feathers, too, which floated in a tiny whirlwind.

Two, then four, then eight. They grew and funneled upward, mixing, taking form.

Too many now. When floating, spheres of crystal clacked together. Feathers ruffled. Surfaces were formed, and lengths, and Sarah could begin to see within the shifting shapes the shadow that she'd glimpsed not many minutes past.

She screamed, and turned, and tried the door, and found that it was locked.

She shook the handle, pounded, shouted.

"Jack! Or, John! Whoever! Open, please!"

No one answered.

The feathers sounded more like fabric every second, and the clicking like a beating heart. The window was behind the source of sound, and she was trapped.

Another round of pounding.

"Anyone! Open the door! Help me! Please!"

* * *

A touch upon her shoulder. Warmer than the night. Through her shirt she feels the fabric of his glove. The air begins to smell of copper things, and burned ones. And of peaches. 

The night she hoped - and feared - would never come is here.

And so is he.

Sarah tries the door one last time as the lights come back on and the breeze stills.

The hand waits still upon her shoulder, patient.

She takes a breath, allows herself to blink, and turns.

"Your hair is red."

And so it is. He wears a cloak of blood-red feathers blending seamlessly into a similarly-coloured mess of hair, in style and substance much as in her dreams. Wherever there is colour in him, it is crimson. Pupils, fingernails, a waistcoat. The freckles in his cheeks, which otherwise are milky white. His tights remind her of fresh snow and hillsides. His boots are moonlight gathered into cloth.

"You called me from your blood," says Jareth. His voice is rough about the edges, as if from lack of use. "Had you called me from the night, I would have raven hair and stars for eyes."

It is then that his hand leaves her shoulder to return to his waist. He never will give up a chance to pose, as half the palace staff has cause to know. Not while he has the full moon at his back.

Which half of the castle? The half which sometimes wear a skirt, owlet.

Half-suspecting that she walks in dreams, Sarah readies her hand to rub her eyes.

And stops.

Before her lie two things - the goblin king's expectant, dotted face and her own palm, so recently pin-pricked in blood. The two are matched. Her slightest wounds are mirrored in his freckled face, except the red upon her hand is smudged, from when she touched her palm to crystal.

His lips are thin and ruddy.

She thinks he guesses what she means to try, but cannot know until she reaches out and feels the skin upon his face.

And so she does.

* * *

End Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

Walls, Chapter 4

by Tichfield

Written for Pika la Cynique's 'Here's the day you hoped would never come' challenge.

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and situations associated with the movie Labyrinth are the property of their copyright holders (The Jim Henson Company), and not mine.

* * *

"My quiet desperation  
wasn't any indication  
that my life  
suddenly could change"

-Tia Carrera

Jareth caught her wrist.

"I don't encourage such familiarity in my goblins," he offered. As if that were sufficient explanation.

Sarah looked about her, trying to catch a glimpse of a small creature scurrying under the piles of fabric or beneath the dressing table.

She didn't understand.

Jareth made it simpler by raising a gloved forefinger and pointing at the moon, unshielded as the night was cloudless.

"Thirteen hours," he said.

This, she could deal with. This, was familiar. A challenge. Something she could stand up against, as a growing vine against a guiding trellis in the garden.

"What if I don't want to save him?" There was steel in her voice. Even our king was taken aback. I think he truly did believe she'd kneel and ask forgiveness the moment he arrived. That only goes to show how little he knew her, then.

"I hardly think it matters," he went on. "Though it couldn't hurt to be more charitable. After all, he's meant to be your rescuer."

Sarah frowned for the second time that night. Had there truly been goblins in her room, they'd have chosen that moment to run for their lives.

"I don't need saving."

Jareth grinned, sparing a flash of his teeth as he took a step toward her. To her credit, she forced herself to stay where she was, and not step backward.

While keeping his eyes fixed on hers - to ensure she wouldn't run, you see, THAT would have been catastrophic - the goblin king produced a bubble from within the ruffles of his shirt.

He made certain she was watching, then tossed in the air, and with a soft touch, popped it.

A scroll unfolded from inside the bubble, hanging in mid-air just long enough for him to snatch it. He let Sarah try to squirm into a position from where she could see the writing on the parchment. When he felt it had gone on for long enough, and once he was assured that all the clauses were as they should be, Jareth handed her the contract.

"I wish that you would take this child away, right now," he recited. "Note the 'you', meaning 'me', and particular use of 'this child'."

Sarah did as she was asked, mouth opening and closing while she tried to find something to say.

Her wounded hands stained the scroll as she held it. As soon as Jareth noticed this, he snatched it back.

"There we go. Signed in blood. All nice and proper." The contract disappeared as elegantly as it had arrived. "Shall we be off, then?"

He offered her his arm - and still considers himself lucky to have kept it.

Sarah found the words she sought.

"That's not fair! I didn't really mean it! And besides... I'm not a child."

"You are what you eat."

"Excuse me?"

"My mistake. That would be me. You are what you believe you are. There, that one fits, doesn't it? There's no denying it, really. We all heard you."

"...All?"

"You honestly thought the frogs would croak 'grow up' without coaxing? Or did you think yourself mad?" His face was carved from ivory. "I gave you a choice, and you chose. Wisely, if I may say so. Now, come along."

He offered his hands, and seconds passed in which she did not take it.

"There's no need for concern. Your knight will save you, won't he?"

She turned her head away from his to look at a poster on the far wall. Alone among its neighbours, it bore no performance dates, gaudy costumes or cheerful-fonted street addresses.

Its bulk consisted of a photograph of a slim man with angled features and short, dyed, moussed blond hair. He wore a black trench-coat, with matching jeans and shirt. Gothic letters spelled out 'Spike' in white, while red marker scrawled a hasty 'J.M.' in a corner.

"Short hair?" The goblin king took back his hand and looked at it closely, as if hoping to find what was wrong with it. "Your tastes HAVE changed." He produced a crystal ball and flattened it into a serviceable blade through force of will. Jareth held it to the back of his neck. "Shall I cut my hair for you?"

"No!" Sarah lunged for the makeshift knife. It shrank into a ball, and her fingers closed on air.

"It's nice to see some things still frighten you." He'd caught her. One arm circled her waist while his free hand held her wrist, in a parody of the waltz. She did not try to flee. Not immediately. He noticed where her eyes were fixed. "I wouldn't try the door, Sarah. It no longer leads where it once did."

She believed him, if only because of the green glow visible through the crack between the door and floor.

"You will let me go this moment," she declared. "You have no power over me!"

"Oh, but I do." He tried to lead her in a tuneless dance. "You're mine, by right of contract, signed in blood. Remember?"

"I don't WANT to be a goblin!" Sarah's feet moved. She didn't want to dance with him, not this way, but her other option was to have him drag her through the room during his movements.

"Is THAT was this is all about?" He smiled. "Then humour me. Why not? Why won't you be my goblin, thirteen hours from now?"

"They're... they're..."

"Not as vain as you are, that's for certain."

"That's not what I was going to say."

"Close enough. Do you truly believe that you are so much better than they?" Sarah looked at something interesting on her right shoulder and paid closer attention to the dance steps. "I thought not. If it helps, I think you'll truly like the castle. I'll give the others orders to avoid you, except by your express command."

Sarah considered using her free hand to reach for a nearby prop umbrella. She could conceivably club His Smugness and run for it - but run for where? She wasn't sure somewhere that glowed green was an improvement over goblinhood. Though the night through the window still looked normal, she settled for stepping on his toes.

Again.

But on purpose, this time.

To his credit, his yelp was well-muffled.

"You'll find me a kind master." He broke off and backed a few steps, considering her appearance. Knowing him as well as you do, you'll recognize this for what it was - an excuse to take pressure off his aching toes in an elegant fashion which looked as if he had intended it all along.

I've often wondered why your father turns into an owl, and not a cat.

Of course I've asked. His answer's always, 'Well, at least it's not a sea lion'.

"You'll find me a kind master," that's where I was at, I think. And he continued. "For one, a yearly gift of clothing." It is traditional among feudal lords.

Once he'd finished considering Sarah's size, he extended his right hand, palm upward, and blew on it. A slight breeze filled the room, swirling around Sarah and picking every last shard of glass out of her skin, hair and clothing. The smaller shards, the slivers, lengthened into threads and multiplied. They danced around and through each other, weaving a dress of glass about her, stealing proper thread as needed from her current costume. Sarah dared not move. She feared the shining threads - and they shone like new-dewed spider silk in moonlight - would slice her. Larger pieces melted, softened edges, sometimes gaining polished facets. They were gem-stones. Decorations. Her hair was covered in a crystal net far more resplendent than the one she'd worn so long ago. This took about a heartbeat. Thirty later came the rest. Her gown was beautiful. She could see this with her own eyes, by looking down and moving arms and legs, and also in the eyes of Jareth, who looked pleased and softer than before.

"It suits you."

"It won't once I shrink, thirteen hours from now."

"You are resigned to your fate?"

She wasn't. Not to this fate. His fate.

"He'll come for me." Crystals tinkled as she spoke.

"He did not brave your own small maze. He feared your memories of me. He would not climb your simple walls for fear of falling. I doubt he has the strength to face a king inside his fortress."

"What made you think that I meant Trevor?" She thought her eyes would shine as bright as the crystals she wore, if she could but spare a moment to look at the mirror. Instead, she called upon a promise and a wish. "Hoggle! Sir Didymus! I need you!"

The wrong voice answered.

"They need YOU. They wait beyond the walls, and through the moonlight."

"Explain yourself."

The sides of Jareth's mouth curled slightly upward.

"Explain myself? You called them with your desperate need. They came, and you ignored them."

"I didn't! They never-"

He raised a finger in silence and warning.

"Then answer me this, Ariadne." Jareth took her hand in his, and bent low as if to grant a kiss. "Who do you think it was that left you my feather and crystal ball?"

She jerked her hand away.

"Ludo! Help! He'll turn me into a goblin!"

"There are many types of goblin." He raised a different finger as he numbered them. "Farmers. Gardeners. Soldiers. Cooks... Oh, dear me. A pinky left. I always forget that one. What was it?" Jareth tapped his little finger to his temple. "Ah, yes. A king." He offered her his hand again. "And queen."

This time she took it. Lightly, so that her skin scarcely touched the fabric of his glove, but surely. She could feel his warmth.

"I'll never be your-"

He shushed her.

"Don't spoil the moment." He lowered his head and kissed the back of her hand, and for one silly moment all she could think was that from this angle, his head looked like a high-schooler's pom-pom.

He disengaged himself and cleared his throat.

"Only willingly," he said.

"What?"

"You will never be my, and so on. So you spoke. To which I answer, only willingly. A royal decree, if you will." A pause for dramatic effect. "Or if you won't. You won't have cause to complain. I treat my ransoms well. As befits their rank."

Sarah risked a glance at the door. If anything, it glowed a sicker shade of green.

"Step into the moonlight, Sarah. I guarantee you'll find it pleasant."

When she looked back, the garden wall had disappeared. That whole side was a window, curtains gone. All furniture she hasn't seen when peeking at the door had disappeared. All that was left was Jareth, beckoning, and a clear path into moonlight, blocked only by glass.

Or was it glass? As she moved closer, it grew thinner. With her hand mere inches from the surface, she felt a coldness, and a mist.

It was a water wall.

A water mirror, rather, for she could see her reflection in it. Distorted, as is always the case with such images. These distortions, however, only served to make her look more beautiful. Those things she wished that none would see were hidden. A troublesome wart from a public bath. A rough patch of skin at the base of her neck. The flecks in her pupil. And other things, too. Her reflection was that of a strong and majestic person, with none of the little weaknesses of character which I won't confess to you at this moment, stripling. No story justifies my providing you with ammunition.

Suffice to say I looked my best, as I have never looked before or since, and the goblin king smiled, because he knew this, and he knew what I thought, and that he had me. As long as this promise, this oath without words, held true. Should I discover he had lied to me...

Well, you're here, aren't you? So you know that he didn't.

I tested the water with my index finger. Not for temperature - I'd been poor for long enough to love cold baths. I wanted to see what lay beyond. Silly, I know. I really should have used a stick, or a shoe. Something I wouldn't mind losing. My mind was far from working properly, and so I used my finger.

I put it through and took it back, as slowly as I dared. The part which had gone through the wall was changed, and for the better. All was clear and perfect. Not a blemish to be seen, and skin the colour I was born with, before the years of air and oil. My fingernail was pearl, and near its base I found I had acquired a diamond ring, the stone set in a silver metal finely crafted.

I shivered, and did not wish to tell him why.

"It's cold," I lied.

"Then I will be your cloak," was all he answered.

He walked behind me, so his front was flush against my back. As far as a glass gown will admit, in any case. His face rested against my head, and his hands were clasped just above my waist by way of a buckle.

And I, still looking at the wall, did see it for a moment: how his head became a hat, his cloak the back of mine, his hands a clasping brooch that fastened the whole, and bound it to me.

As protection from the cold, he was exemplary. I grew so warm I nearly melted. My skin blushed the red you see in candle-flames.

I turned to give a last and longing look at the door. I needn't have bothered. It had disappeared some moments earlier, and been replaced with shapeless darkness.

He turned with me, so I did not have to face him. Yet.

Something happened and I thought I saw, outside the corner of my eye, a fleeting shape. A shadow. Dark from dark, and hard to trace, but I was certain that it'd gone into the wall.

I looked back toward the water and found it still reflected the door, though it was no longer there. The mirror door was just ajar, and closing. I fancied, though I caught the sight with but a whisper left in it, I saw two tails - a longer, shaggy white one and a shorter one in orange.

The door slammed shut without a sound, and I stepped into the moonlight.

* * *

End Chapter 4


End file.
